


Bitter Tea and Tasteless Alcohol

by WayWardWatson



Series: Party When Dead Sherlock Fics [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Comfort/Angst, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Jealousy, Light Angst, Post Reichenbach, Pre Reichenbach, Sorry Not Sorry, Symbolism, envy - Freeform, limp, my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayWardWatson/pseuds/WayWardWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here’s a funny thing about love and envy, it’s like bitter tea and tasteless alcohol; unavoidable, lost, and horrible.</p><p>It can drive a man insane, to deal with the questionable morality, to feel love yet bitter hate for a loved one’s success. It’s like a disease, a poison that slowly turns your skin green with each passing second, which slowly consumes the loving soul, relishing in its screams, imprisoning it in its own nightmares, and yet still left as this miserable entity that demands the equal repercussion: the destruction of the desired object.</p><p>But Harry can't help but be jealous of her baby brother John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Tea and Tasteless Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> This is Day 3 Prompt: Jealousy.

She’ll admit it, she was a bit tipsy when John came back home, but she tried her best to restrain on the drinking, really she did. And, technically, this has been her most sober moment since she heard her baby brother got shot in the shoulder. She only had two shots of gin and half a glass of tequila when John shuffled in. Well, not really shuffled, more like limbed. He limbed in, leaning on this short black cane, with _that_ look, the look of a heavily fortified wall, the look of a soldier, and Harry’s stomach turned.

Where’d she stash the rum again?

John hobbled about the room, his nose scrunching up from the overpowering stench of alcohol and dried vomit. He glanced at the sofa; torn, dirty, with a shattered wine glass peaking out behind the space of the couch. Grimacing, he scuffled away from it, looking up towards Harry expectantly. Unable to face her brother, her broken brother pitying her, she mumbled out an excuse for the restroom and barely suppressed barreling inside and slamming the door behind her. With trembling hands, she threw open the sink cabinets, rushing for the bottle of rum hidden underneath, before gulping down large swigs as if it was water.

The bottle was half gone when she stashed it away again. With trembling fingers, she clutched the bathroom counter and lifted herself up, never letting go until she was sure she could stand on her own. Looking up from her fingers, she nearly screamed in fright at the monster before her. Its red eyes glared back at her while barring its yellow, rotting teeth. The grey skin lagged in patches, threatening to fall off, and its matted oily hair canopied the monster’s head. But what made it so much worse, so horrible, was that Harry was looking at herself.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door and the clipped voice of her brother reverberated in the small bathroom. Broken out of her horror, Harry hurriedly assured him she was fine, throwing on the faucet and dosing her face and brushing her hair quickly. A wave of dizziness struck her and she could only count to twenty before opening her eyes, turning off the faucet, and striding, albeit half-hazardly, towards the door, opening it, and stumbling through.

John was leaning by the kitchen wall, which was right near the door, and he wasn’t pleased. Harry chuckled a little bit at that, before leaning next to him, shoulders brushing. His nose scrunches up again at the smell of hard liquor and moves away disgusted. She’s waiting to hear the lecture, like Clara would give her before she gave up on her – she hated when Clara cried -, but it never came. Instead, John just shakes his head and moves to leave. Harry panics for a second and grabs his arm, and then her heart shatters because when John looks back at her he isn’t the brave soldier boy anymore, he’s little 7 year old Johnny after he fell and hurt his knee or 5 year old baby brother pleading to stay with his older sister cause of the monster in his closet.

But now, it was broken Johnny feeling useless with his shot arm and lagging limb, unable to save his poor drunken sister, and the pity came off in waves. Her mouth snapped shut and, at that, his face fell back into soldier mode. Hand gripped loosely now on his sleeve, she dug in her pocket and took out her phone – _inside a box covered with pink tissue and white ribbon_ – handing it over to her brother.

“Keep it,” she uttered, pushing it into his fingers before letting go of his sleeve.

He gave a short nod, pulling away back towards the door. Perhaps she should stop him, call him back, apologize? But she just stood there as she let her broken baby brother leave to wander the cruel world outside again. She felt like crying, she felt like screaming, but mostly, she felt a twinge of anger because _how dare_ he feel pity towards her. Yet, even at his lowest point little John still managed to be stronger than her, it _burned_ her and for a brief second, Harry hated John.

Cold guilt washed over her, suddenly she needed another Jack Daniels.

\---

She was getting better, or that’s what she told herself, the doctor, and now John who came to visit after a few weeks of living with that flatmate of his. He had walked in, no cane, no hobble, expecting the worse, and she could tell because he had _that_ look again, but it wasn’t like the last time. They were equally broken last time, little broken soldier boy returning from the war and drunk big sister drowning in the drink, but now he’s Doctor John Watson; healthy, living, thriving, all within _weeks_ of his downfall.  And where was drowning sister? Still, under a bottle.

She smiles at John, smiles at the gradual smoothing of his forehead, smiles at the glimmer of hope that hides within his small smile back, smiles even as she feels the biggest urge to gulp down whiskey, before clapping his shoulder (the uninjured one) and guiding him to the new recliners (she had thrown out the couch) and leaving to get the tea from the kitchen. Once he was comfortably settled in the chair, John glanced around the clean flat, noting that the mysterious stains are missing and the empty bottles are absent, however he isn’t convinced despite everything.

When Harry comes back with tea and they sit and chat about inane things (well, not so much inane as bordering on unbelievable), Harry can’t help but fixate on this simple fact that John can walk fine again – that John’s life has just dramatically changed. And she’s happy, any sister would be happy to know their brother isn’t hurting anymore, but she’s miserable. It’s not fair. It’s not _fair._ Why does this little boy –man- who have always got what he’s wanted, finally faces downfall and then, suddenly, his life is amazing again.

Why does he get the miracle?

Why does he have the adventures?

Why does he get better and she has to lose _everything_ and be so alone?

Lifting the cup up, she doesn’t notice the reflection of her face nor the green blotch spreading underneath her left eye. And while she was happy, she _was_ happy for him, but she wasn’t and she felt the tugs of envy tug inside her, and if, later, she would lose sleep trying to figure out what was wrong or right, well she still wouldn’t have known and she still wouldn’t feel any better, in fact, she might just have another relapse cause of it.

\---

Here’s a funny thing about love and envy, it’s like bitter tea and tasteless alcohol; unavoidable, lost, and horrible. It can drive a man insane, to deal with the questionable morality, to feel love yet bitter hate for a loved one’s success. It’s like a disease, a poison that slowly turns your skin green with each passing second, which slowly consumes the loving soul, relishing in its screams, imprisoning it in its own nightmares, and yet still left as this miserable entity that demands the equal repercussion: the destruction of the desired object.

Harry battled with her alcohol addiction and, as time wore, she would eventually win, but as she read the stories of her brother’s life, the adventures and that relationship ( _she was so alone now, so boring)_ he shared with his flatmate, she lost to the disease.

Oh but she loved John, really, and when his Sherlock fell she made sure to come and comfort him, because good big sisters did that. He wouldn’t cry, she knew he wouldn’t, he was the brave little soldier boy, that wall built up just like the first time, except far worse. She would comfort him, help him, _pity_ him, and he’ll get better like she did; no miracles, no adventures, just a long, miserable process of healing. That’s how it should be and if she smiled, the tea cup hid it well.

 


End file.
